


good coffee, bad tempers (PHAN)

by xx1onedirection1xx



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Amazingphil - Freeform, DAN AND PHIL - Freeform, Dan Howell - Freeform, M/M, Phanfiction, Phil Lester - Freeform, YouTube, danisnotonfire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:18:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xx1onedirection1xx/pseuds/xx1onedirection1xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(DAN AND PHIL AU FANFICTION)</p><p>dan gets a job at a local coffee shop, only to find that his newfound, clumsy high school foe already works there.</p><p>they find ways to help eachother.</p><p>it's considered friendly blackmail, depending on who you ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. //1//

**Author's Note:**

> this is gonna be chapter by chapter !!  
> i can post a 8tracks playlist for each chapter or whatever if you want ! just comment if you want one, i'll see what i can do. :)  
> i just joined this phandom a few months ago, and this is my first dan/phil fanfic. so please no vicious death threats or whatever haha. :)  
> thanks for reading!! hopefully this isn't so bad your organs literally implode and you splat onto your computer screen !!

\--dan--

 

Today, of all days, his parents decided to tickle the pickle.  
The brunette had his unawakened dreams interrupted by the horrific sound of his parents getting it on, which is weird, because it’s Tuesday. What Dan means, is that on Tuesdays, his dad is usually out of town. Out of the state, actually, because that’s what accountants do. They travel, y’ know, worldwide.  
But Dan is quite aware that in the room adjacent to his, only a few dreadful feet, he hears his mum giggling, and not in the way she does when her “Danny boy” trips down the steps.  
No. She doesn’t moan when he trips.  
Oh god.  
As he threw on his trousers and a random hoodie, a pair of shoes in his hand and his phone being held in his mouth, he decided he could handle some fresh air.

\--

Until he remembered it was mid-January.  
‘Fuck’, he hissed, the wind forcing the door shut behind him.  
He sits on the front porch step, trying to ignore the worried looks from Mrs. Beaver, their gardening-obsessed neighbor, who is always fashioned with a fluorescent pink fanny pack. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her cat, Richard, taking a piss in his “designated area”. Yep. Richard has his own little fenced-portion to relieve his bladder in.  
Screw Richard, Dan thought to himself spitefully, shoving his bare feet into his black vans. He has his own life that’s being a bit pissed on right now. For goodness sake, his mom tickling her pickle nearly in his room. Jeez.  
He starts down the street, with the realization that he can’t get back in without a key, and he doesn’t want to interrupt her mom and dad right now. He’d have to give them at least ten minutes.  
Ew.

\--

“What do ya’ mean you’re not home?” Dan whispers in his phone, heading further down the dirt trail. He can almost feel P.J. shrug through the phone, in that douche-bag way P.J. does. P.J. can be such a douche sometimes.  
“I dunno, sorry, man. Can you hear the waves behind me?” He exclaimed, not sounding too apologetic from hearing Dan’s misfortunes.>  
“Yeah, sure can, bud,” Dan slurs, trying to sound sarcastic. But if he knows his best friend, then he knows that P.J. can’t sense it. Even in person P.J. has trouble sensing Dan’s little sassy quirks. Truthfully, Dan isn’t mad at P.J. He could never be truly mad at him; it’s just the way Dan is, pretending to hate everything though he never truly could. It causes too much effort.  
Dan doesn’t think he’s ever truly hated anything in his life.  
(Little did he know what he’d be thinking, exactly one week later, after his pants get hot, sticky liquid seeping through them?)

\--

He got off the phone a couple minutes after that, after fakely cheering up and wishing P.J. a happy and safe vacation in the Bahamas.  
Dan wishes he could just be warm, so warm that his skin shriveled, so hot that he shivered form the hotness of it. Irony is one of Dan’s strongpoints, and unintentional, unfortunate irony is his most common.  
It’s nearly eight in the morning now, so he decides on a whim to head back to the house, seeing that his parents would be.. um.. done by now.  
Ew.  
Nonetheless, he strides quickly back down the trail that connects to his backyard, which evidently wraps around to the front drive.  
He pads his shoes nonchalantly down the sidewalk running by his house, until he hears the click.  
The front door must have just been shut, but he hears more than two feet walking down.  
“This was fun,” His mum whispered joyfully, albeit very quietly, to someone.  
Why is his dad leaving now? Is he going to work now?  
“See ya’ love,” he hears, as well, but it’s so indistinct that he can’t quite place it. It’s dark and grumbly, but any man’s morning voce can sound like that.  
Well, not Dan, specifically, but Dan makes the exception. Boys his age don’t have morning voices like that.  
He hears a car engine start up, so he takes the risk of sneaking a peak while he still can.  
The car was just whizzing away, but he saw the color, even in the dark of the morning, and it wasn’t too familiar. His dad must’ve gotten a new car.  
Who knows what else he’s been up to, then.

\--

Right then, he looked at his phone.  
It was only a little after eight when he last-  
oh, fuck.  
Time really flies by when you’re waiting for your parents to stop screwing.

\--

He doesn’t really notice until lunch time in the library, sat down in the stacks with his current novel and his prepackaged grub, how much of a bitch blisters can be.  
Gasping and biting his tongue to stop the cussing (Mrs. Owens would be disappointed if she heard him), he pops his beat-up vans off, hearing them individually pit-pat as they hit the tile floor.  
Red, bumpy blisters rise on the backs of his ankles, almost growing more without the confinement of a shoe heel.  
But because he’s a stubborn little asshole, Dan decides to shove his shoes back on, his feet can get over it.  
He gets back to his half-eaten PB&J, reopening to his page in his book.  
Dan likes being back here, by himself. Sure, usually he’s accompanied by P.J., and if P.J.’s here then so is his friend, Matt. But whatever, it’s okay. Dan’s content with being alone.

\--

The one problem about being such a stubborn asshole, is when there’s possible future jobs involved. And job interviews, which because of his stupid stubbornness, Dan has to go to with these feet, this outfit, and his bitter attitude because of the prior two. After the bell rang, signaling the end of another goddamn school day, Dan headed straight for the bathrooms, hoping to delay leaving a few minutes. His interview wasn’t until four, and he still could stick around another half hour before he needed to walk there.  
So there he was, in the bathroom stall, trying to make himself pee but yet unable to. He knows he should drink more water during the day, and maybe less Diet Pepsi, but he can’t help himself. The carbonation helps his stomach loosen up, since it’s always felt like it’s in tight knots, twisting harder and pressing against his skeletal frame.  
With a growing frown, he flushes, gets up, and washes his hands, all while thinking of where the nearest vending machine is. He might as well buy a water, drink it, and go on his way to the interview. There must be a bathroom in one of the shops on that street.  
Dan doesn’t even dry his hands. He grabs his backpack, hands still dripping, because they’ll dry on their own, because all thing leave, even water. Water has commitment issues with the Earth. It evaporates high into the sky, slowly distancing itself before it gets mixed in, before it gets held back, possibly in a huge ocean, intertwining with other lost drops.  
Anyway. Dan heads down the hall towards the Field House.  
His mum always told him that he overanalyzes things.

\--

Well, its nice to know some people have it worse than him. The soccer field had lots going on, and lots falling. A light layer of flurried snow and thick sleet fell, creating an inevitable layer of ice. On top of that, there was two dozen boys stomping around, trying to use their cleats, to prevent being that clumsy dimwit who’d fall and get hurt, before spring sports even started.  
Dan stood there, still inside the Field House, safe from the bitchy weather outside. That should be a new thing, like a new “trend”. Using bitchy to describe inanimate objects, instead of living, breathing things. Instead of dehumanizing people with that words, use it on something that wouldn’t be affected by it, not even in the slightest.  
If only Dan had enough impact, or enough people to spill his ingenious idea too, he’d start it.  
Oh well.  
Glancing at his watch, he notices he’s still got a bit of time, so he stays there, knowing he looks like a freak, just watching people form this little glass window, but still doesn’t care, because e wants to see someone do something embarrassing. Especially these boys, a part of the “I’m a Super Asshole Jock” squad. That would just lighten Dan’s conscience so much.  
Sure, that makes him sound a bit like a sadist.  
Eh. He can’t deny that accusation.  
Suddenly, a murmured voice comes pout of nowhere, and seems too close, too close considering Dan’s inside and no one else is. At least, not another teenage boy, and that’s why he’s so confused when a crackly, bit-high pitched voice says: “Gotta take a whizz, I’ll be back,”. More so, his heart explodes when he sees Boy, a Boy, sauntering towards the door.  
This freaks Dan out more than if a whole team saw him.  
Having a one-on-one confrontation has always been anxiety-provoking, and now it seems potentially fatal, because it’d be with a “Super Asshole Jock” member. Dan’s heart would implode, splatter his ribs, and block his arteries, eh doesn’t know biologically how that’d happen, but he was so sure that it would, so he decides to bolt, somewhere where he could be efficiently hidden from Boy.  
But instead, instead of actually just walking away, or looking for a nearby hall or open room, Dan’s mind finalizes his choice. And his ‘choice’ is to walk forward. Yes, you read that right, Dan involuntarily chooses to walk forward, and maybe sneak through the door before Boy walks through.  
He walks forward, legs shuffling frantically, tiny steps, and he pushes the door open, and its really cold, and then it’s not, because-  
Dan remembers feeling that warmth. And the sweat.  
And when he opened his eyes again, it was after he heard, “Sorry, I’m so sweaty, it’s literally dripping on you, and.”  
Dan looks up, until the realization lands that Boy is on him, literally on top of him, literally planking on him. In front of the whole field. In front of everyone.  
Shit shit shit shit shit-  
Boy has blue eyes. Too light of a blue, actually, like a snake, though Dan’s never stared at one’s eyes before, he thinks it’d be much like this. Too electric blue, too fluorescent, like a pastel gas station sign, a picture you’d see on an artistic blog.  
His eyes are someone’s aesthetic.  
But not Dan’s.  
“I should probably get off of you now.” Boy says, straight faced, but eyes show a hint of humor. No humiliation, though. What the fuck? Why is he not cherry-faced? Why is he not accusing Dan of assault? Is he human?  
Dan is so shocked by all of this, all this commotion and contact, that he stays there, on the soggy ground, feeling the bitchy snow seep through the back of his cardigan, feeling it stick against his skin, and he still doesn’t give a shit. He literally, literally his body won’t let him.  
Maybe he’s paralyzed.  
He knows he’s not when he sees the pale hand, almost as fluorescent as those eyes, stuck in his vision, right in his reach.  
Dan waits a moment, because maybe that hand wasn’t for him, maybe Boy was just stretching awkwardly or-  
“Need a hand?” Boy says, now smirking, but trying to bite it back. It’s one of those smirks where it only effects one side of the mouth, like the face becomes bipolar, one side all bright and bubbly and the other side having none of that foolery.  
Dan gulps, and realizes its for him, and realizes Boy still needs to piss.  
So he grabs it.  
And stars pulling himself up, until he realizes, shit, this boy was just exerting energy, and he’s sweaty, therefore his hands are slippery, so he just-  
And he falls back down, back pounding the ground even harder than the first time.  
Fucking shit, fucking shit on a goddamn-  
“Bud, oh bud, I’m so sorry, I should’ve wiped my hand, here, just give me a-“ And then Boy is rubbing his hand on his three-sizes too big black jersey, frantically, obviously embarrassed for Dan.  
Dan isn’t mortified. He should be mortified. He should be cherry-faced, he should be crying, he should be feeling something, you know?  
No, he lies there, trying to ignore the small titters of chuckling that’s obviously from Boy’s teammates. While this is happening, Dan slides over, literally slides on his back, towards the track, the one area which can’t be frozen over, because of whatever its made from.  
From there, he sees in his peripheral vision, Boy is watching him, standing there, frozen, hands still on his jersey. Dan ignores this even more as he pushes his arms on each side, and stands into crab position, until he uses his core enough to exert all the way into the air, finally standing.  
He glances over at Boy one last time, as he’s tugging down his cardigan. “Don’t you need to whizz?”  
Dan turns around immediately, pacing away, passing the vending machine, he’s not worried about peeing now, he;s not worried about water.  
Fuck water. Fuck Boy.  
Fuck.


	2. //2//

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i just discovered mikey murphy from a grace helbig video !! he is so cute and im excited to watch more from hin but idk much about him now so excuse me if i say/write something that is inaccurate

Dan never realized how numb you could feel after such a traumatic moment. Sure, he sounds like he’s exaggerating, but if you’ve never had a soccer star lay on top of you, as you become soaked, in front of a minimum of 50 people, than you’d have no right to assume he is.  
Yet, even after all that happened, he still feels nothing. He feels like he’s in a dream, not like he should feel, which should be humiliation, and even panicky, dreadful, because of all the shit he’ll have to deal with tomorrow. From what he’s heard, the athletes can be pretty homophobic, not that Dan’s gay, no, Dan just means that he looked gay then. No, the players wouldn’t accuse Boy for being queer, no, just Dan. Because that’s how the totem pole works. When you’re so far down that you’re hanging on for life, the peak of the pole can do whatever they want. And no one blinks an eye.  
While Dan has a whole web mess of thoughts intertwining and fucking his brain up, he feels a pressure, right as he sees the familiar worn-out sign that has soft, dusty pink letters hand-painted on it. It reads, in flawless cursive: “Cecelia’s Coffee Country”.  
This is it.  
Dan is here. Here, right in front, shaking from the cold.  
And with a pressure, he realizes, and which is unfortunately placed.  
He glances at his watch, right as he feels the pressure move farther down.  
Its 4:03, and Dan has to pee.  
He doesn’t feel so numb anymore.  
\--  
“Very nice to meet you, Daniel Howell, you’re really going to be a great addition to this home.”  
“Home?’ Dan said, smiling as he shook the friendly older man’s hand. He tried to ignore the copious freckles of liver spots on it.  
The man, --, nodded proudly. “We don’t consider this a job. We consider this a factor of our daily lives, seeing the regulars, getting them a hot drink before they head their separate ways. It’s just giving service to some friends and possible ones.”  
“Oh,” Dan says, shoving both his hands in his front pockets of his sweatpants, not because he’s uncomfortable. This place gives off a very warm, cozy vibe, no, Dan is just an awkward tall prairie dog. Very twitchy and out of place, even though he continuously attempts to dig holes to hide in among the dirt of his life. ‘That’s cool.” He finishes.  
Wow, Dan. Wow. You’re so poetic.  
And while they discussed when he’d start, --- even made Dan a drink to go.  
As he left, with a smile and wave from the old man and his dog, who greeted him by the door as a nice farewell, Dan decided something. He agreed even more with that thought when he took a sip of the drink, which turned out to be the best mocha he’s ever had the privilege of drinking in his whole life.  
Now, it’s not a thought. Dan’s certain that this place is just way too good for him. He doesn’t quite deserve it.  
He can’t even drink water. How will he be able to be a good addition to this place? Will he go one shift without possibly setting the place into flames or a nuclear explosion?  
\--  
On his way home, Dan decided to take a longer route, just to think. He likes this time for himself. Since Choir finished up last week with their Winter Concert, he’s had more free afternoons. So, yes, he does like this one-one-one time with himself, but on the other hand, he doesn’t like it all the time. Having this much time to reconsider every mistake he’s made is transcending into a crisis for him, or it feels like it. And Dan really doesn’t want an existential crisis (not another one, actually).  
To his right on the trail, sits a whole group of younger people. People his age.  
This is literally Dan’s worst nightmare.  
Ever since he was a kid, he’s hated seeing a group of peers in public, and him by himself. It makes him look like a loner, of he thinks it does, and because he thinks this, he hyperventilates and has a panic episode. Which, if it hadn’t already, makes the peers look at him weirdly and hardcore judge him. It’s horrible, and he hates it, he always has, and so when he sees this group, he’s tempted to jump onto the train tracks to his left and just wait, wait until his internal organs become external on the sidewalk.  
But he doesn’t. He keeps his head low, and pushes his ear buds farther into his ears, just to block them out. But as he was about to push in his right one, he hears something.  
“Hey, you!”  
You. Well at least they’re on a first name basis.  
So intimate.  
He pauses, right in front of an anthill, one he definitely would’ve stepped on if they hadn’t spoken to him.  
He stands there, and stares at the migrating and constant ants, neat little black rows of black dots, all moving with a purpose.  
Sometimes Dan wishes he was an ant.  
Especially now, especially when the same person continues:  
“Yeah, you! Come here!”  
He doesn’t feel numb anymore. He fucking feels everything.  
By the time he twists around and takes in the whole group, that are all looking at him, it’s almost silent.  
He pauses his music. The silence becomes louder and consumes him, takes him whole, like a hungry hungry hippo wholly consumes the game marble.  
Nonetheless, he takes a step forward, then another one, then a third. Now he’s right in front of them, all six of them, five boys and one girl with electric blue hair.  
“Your PJ’s friend, right?” That same one says, his light brown hair all springy and bubbly. Dan’s not sure how hair can appear bubbly, but this kid’s does, and according to the bright smile on the boy’s face, he’s a bubbly person.  
Of course this bubbly adolescent knows PJ, one of the star pitches on the school’s baseball team. PJ’s always been good at sports. Dan’s always not been.  
Dan nods a couple times, almost like a loosened, broken bobble head; gravity’s pushing it up and down, like it wants it then rejects it.  
The boy squinted at Dan through the white flurries that now descended onto the dirt trail. “Saw what happened today. Man, are you okay?”  
Dan racked through his brain for a second, trying to decide which embarrassing moment this guy was talking about. That’s quite a sad moment, when you literally don’t know which humiliating moment someone tells you that they’re sorry for.  
He could sit down, on a goddamn typewriter, and type out a whole list, several pages, probably. He could write a New York Times Bestseller.  
If he could write that well, and according to his third grade English teacher, Dan knows that he cannot. He just doesn’t have any muse, “any sparkling inspiration that you can brighten into a fire”, according to Mrs. Parker. It’s been a solid ten years since she said that, but it’s still engraved into him. He can almost feel the words imprinted into his brain’s crooks and crannies.  
Dan realizes now, looking at these people that are gazing up at him as well, that in normal conversations, like in its Rule Book, its his turn to speak.  
He gulps whatever nerves he can and tries to.  
“Yeah, um. I’m good, just a bit soggy, that’s all.” He tries to smirk, but he’s sure it’s a grimace.  
It doesn’t matter, the boy chuckles a bit. Not in the way that’s mockingly, but in a genuine way, like Dan was being comical, even though wasn’t trying to be. He was just being himself.  
Anyway, the boy’s laughing fades off and he stood up, wiping at the butt of his pants. “Do you need another hoodie or whatever to wear? I’ve got a couple extra in my bag, and I could lend you one.”  
Dan pauses, freezes, just at the thought of rejecting this person. He doesn’t want to sound mean, but he also is going straight home, so he’s going to be showering anyway. But this guy looks so fresh and happy; he doesn’t want to dampen his mood, or the group’s mood.  
So Dan decides to reject it. But he’ll smile whilst doing it.  
It’s most likely a good thirty seconds later when Dan chokes out:  
“Sure.”  
Fuck.  
Fuck you Dan, and your inconsistent thoughts and actions, fuck all of that, fuck the fact that this stranger is reaching into his sports bag and pulling out a neatly folded hoodie, all clean and smelling of fabric softener.  
Fuck, Dan thinks when he takes off his hoodie and puts this guy’s on.  
“Thank you, I’ll give it back tomorrow.” Dan says, smiling again at his guy.  
Dan turns to continue going home, when he again hears:  
“Wait, what’s your name? Just so I can put a name to a face.”  
Dan swivels around. He feels the group watching him still, and his face goes hot, even in the cold snow. “Dan. Daniel Howell.”  
Daniel Howell. How snotty does that sound.  
The boy bites back a grin and says, hand reaching out for a shake, “Hey, Danny. I’m Mikey. Michael Murphy.”  
Mikey smelled like smores and weed.

\--

When Dan walked into school that day, he decided this sweatshirt was the comfiest thing he owned. Yes, Dan was still wearing it, and yes, he knows that's weird. When he put it on yesterday, he only thought it was comfy because of the itchy, soggy hoodie he had on previously. But after he got home and showered, he put it in the dryer to warm it up and well. Wow He never quite knew how enveloping things can feel, and how it can feel like that in a good way. When he was a little boy, he thought the only kind of enveloping was suffocating. Whenever his mom would hug him, he would squirm and pray for it to be over. Not that he hates hugging his mom. Even Dan is not that evil. Anyway, Dan walked into school, sweatshirt on, still a slight smell of weed and chocolate. While he should feel embarrassed, he just tries to imagine a Dan 2.0. The maroon, sport sweatshirt, sporting the fancily embroidered "--- Soccer 2016 Team". Maybe they'll all think he' on the team. Maybe h can get a haircut after school today. Maybe he can get a tan, wear lotion, get some new jeans. Who knows. Hell, Dan got a new sweatshirt, nothing is stopping him now. It's the start of a new revolution. With a broad smile, Dan sauntered towards his first class, all while thinking of becoming a new him. The old Dan, Dan 1.0, had defects, things in need of repair. But this version could make a joke and not worry if it'll be funny, this Dan could sit in the cafeteria to eat lunch, not the library. This Dan could walk in public near groups of teens and not want to die. This Dan was new, this Dan was better.  
And all because of someone else's sweatshirt.  
\--  
Dan was walking out of school, when he heard a honk.  
It was high-pitched, not quite a honk, more so a 'beeep.'  
And Dan recognized the laugh.  
"Hey, Daniel, liking the shirt?" The person said, but not in the mocking way, as most students would sound. No, his was in the genuine, real way, the "I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing with you" vibe.  
Dan turned around and smiled at Mikey.  
"Hey, um. Yeah,quite comfy." He paused, then horror took over his face, in a quick flash, like a deer in the headlights. Like a Dan in headlights.  
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was gonna find you this morning and give it back, but I forgot and.." Dan started, but Mikey shook his head, chuckling a bit. "Bud, it's all good, I'm glad you like it, that's all."  
Dan let out a sigh of relief, body hunching forward now, the panic washing away from him like someone was spraying him with a garden hose. "Oh, okay. I promise I will wash it and return it to you tomorrow."  
'return it to you tomorrow'. He is such a goddamn dork.  
Mikey just stared at him, smile still on his lips, dimples now evident. "You going anywhere right now?"


	3. three!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its some pretty intense dope

And that's how he ended up parked in front of a frozen yogurt store, waiting anxiously in the passenger seat, waiting for Mikey to come back in and for them to drive the hell away from here and never look back.

Dan could be arrested. He is with the criminal, he is attached to the crime.

"It's just an exchange of some money and a bag, you'll be fine," Mikey told him on the way. "Plus, with you in the passenger seat, it won't look shady."

At that moment, Dan spun his head around, eyes wild and wide, bright in terror as he glared at Mikey. He felt his face develop little drips of sweat, sliding down his forehead. And it's snowing outside. "It looks shady? Who would notice it in the first place? Cops? There's gonna be cops around?" Dan asked, voice exasperated but hushed, in total paranoia that someone might have hidden a microphone in his car and were trying to catch them in the act.

He was gonna throw up. "No," Mikey said, not annoyed by Dan, but trying to get him to calm down, to not throw up, trying to not make him drop out last second. "No, I didn't mean that. No one will notice. It's only a fro-yo place anyway, and it's winter. Pretty abandoned, so."

And now Dan is watching in the passenger mirror, watching Mikey 'fake" handshake the guy and slipping 30 bucks into his sleeve.

 

Dan gulped when Mikey slid back into his car seat. "You good?" He asked, and Dan nodded, like an officially broken bobblehead. He just witnessed a drug deal.  
"Yeah, yeah. All good in the hood." He said, forcing a laugh out, but it sounded like he was in pain.

(He isn't denying that he is, though. Neither a yes or a no, because he doesn't quite know what he feels. Ever.)

And they ended up in front of a pastel blue house, with pink window panes and a pastel yellow front door.

"This is your house?" Dan lets slip out, his mouth moving way faster than his brain could cooperate with. That's what usually happens with him; when one thing works good, efficiently, and one part doesn't. All o him can't function simultaneously.

Like when he tries to wink, he can't close his mouth. It's like the face girls make when putting on mascara. But he's not a girl and he doesn't wear mascara. (Except for Halloween. He goes all out on that day; because, let's face it, Dan does look pretty stellar with his waterline darkened.)

Anyway. Mikey looks at him and smiles, lips grower thinner as his smile turns into his dimpled cheeks. Then he turns and pushes his door open, leaving Dan just sitting there, reconsidering all his life decisions. The latest decision he made was when he decided to walk through that field house door yesterday. And we all know how that turned out.

But now, Mikey is walking down the street, already off the driveway, turning around, and signaling Dan to hurry up, but all with a huge old genuine grin. This kid.

"Okay," Dan whispers to himself. "Okay. You're okay. Okay?" He closes his eyes, and for that second, envisions it. That's what gives him the balls to open the door, running down the driveway, letting the door naturally close behind him, shutting, all with a small click. Just a sound for recognition that Dan finally moved on.

He even laughed as he sprinted after Mikey.

 

But he knew it was a mistake when he arrived at the house.

He and Mikey were walking down the trail, having a good ole' time, just the two of them, on the way to the 'hangout'.

Dan still doesn't quite know why Mikey wanted to bring him, considering all they've ever done together was go to a fro-yo place, and not even to get fro-yo.

Dan knew it was a mistake, when they got to the house, where the "hang out" was happening.

Right when they walked through the front door, he knew it , it fell over him like a zoned-daze, like a fog of both terror and numbness took control of him, seeping through his skin. His oily, acne-prone skin.

His sweaty, shriveling skin.

Yeah.

"Want a hit?" He heard a familiar crackly, high-pitched voice say.

And they turned around, right as they said it, and looked with their fucking glowing blue eyes, and regret filled their eyes.

Boy was here. And so was all the other "Super Asshole Jock" squad.

Dan really wanted to fling himself out the window to his right, but it was the first floor, so it wouldn't be suicide, only public suicide.

And Dan's already quite familiar to that.

"Dan sure would, he's had a long day," Mikey says, patting Dan on his shoulder. "Let him go first in the chatty circle."

Dan closed his eyes, heart pounding, hands shaking as he shoved them in his front pockets.

Boy looked at him, light grin growing on his pasty skin. (Dan would say it was more of a smooth milky-pale skin, not pasty, but pasty sounds more bitter and more true with his mood currently. Currently, he wants to stab little pasty Boy in his little pasty Boy heart.)

"Do you want to?" Boy asks, backing up a few steps toward the kitchen. "We were just about to start."

Dan gulped, and glanced at Mikey, pure horror stricken in his eyes. On the contrary, Mikey looked pretty zen with everything. "Yeah," Mikey says, smiling at Dan, "He's into much of a talker, but he seems pretty into it."

Fuck Mikey, Dan thinks, following the two of them in their stupid jock jerseys into the kitchen, and down the basement stairs.

Fuuuuck.

He breathed in the thick smoke that he's smelled so many times at the trail, so this was almost too familiar for him, considering it's his first time.

And he coughed it out as quickly as he sucked it in.

"You alright?" Mikey asks, hitting Dan's back, as he continues his huge coughing fit, hacking and hacking with no end in sight. "You've done this before, right?" He asks, half-jokingly, until he waits, until he realizes Dan is done coughing and not answering.

Dan's body literally rejected the joint, it literally forced the dope smoke out of him, and every one in this circle knows it, and they now know that he's-

"Oh my god, you're a Weed Virgin!" Some girl exclaims, from across the circle, the same one that was at the trail yesterday with Mikey. Right as she yelled it, the whole group shrieks in laughter and went into hysterics.

Now, every one is chanting Weed Virgin, causing Dan's face to surely redden more than hit had been before.

Across the circle, Boy bites back a grin, looking down, shaking his head slowly, like he wants to tell his squad to stop, but somehow can't, most likely because he is a pussy. Boy is such a pussy.

And that's when Dan loses it. "Well, I'd rather be a Weed Virgin then a dead-end, unemployed stoner who has no life and likes to make fun of others who haven't fucked up their life like I have."

The whole circle drops silent, fades into an awkward, tense quietness.

And then they break out, hysterics more hysterical then before.

Is this what feeling high is like? Dan thought to himself, quietly seething and cracking his knuckles. Does it make you feel like everybody is judging you?

Suddenly fed up with this, with all this, Dan stands up, brushing his pats off, because for some reason, for an unknown, random reason, he felt as if he needed to look dignified as he marched out of here.

Even though, at this point, his vision is slightly blurry, but in a cottony, fuzzy way, like those little flowers with the white on the end. What are those called? Oh. Wait. Is that just cotton plants? How big are those, anyway?

While his mind was deep in thoughts about cotton and its origin, everyone was pleading for him to come back and 'chill' with them. Dan must be walking out now, but he still isn't thinking quite straight, and all he smells is smores and fabric softener, and wants some smores.

"Dude, there just jokin', tossing the shit, you know." Mikey says, now in front of him, hands on both his shoulders. "Are you okay, Daniel?" He looks deep into Dan's eyes, which must be glazed over and huge by now.

"I just really want some smores." Dan says, low voiced, sounding like he's confessing something that he should be guilty about. "Just, y' know, really would like some smores to be entered into my mouth hole."

Mikey’s laughing, that entire chuckle, all that depth. Dan could feel his smile, his mouth stretching. Why do mouths stretch upward when they’re happy? Why do our muscles, no, why does our brain tell us to do that?

Dan really should take Psychology. Maybe he’d hate his life less if he knew why he thought the way he did. Anyway, Mikey just shakes his head. “Okay, take a chill pill, get some fresh air, head back in when you want, I guess.” He pats Dan on the shoulder, once, then a second time, before turning back in and clicking the back porch door shut.

Dan sits in the closest lawn chair, staring at the wrinkles in his palms for who knows how long.

All he knows, is when he looks up next, the sky lights have gone down, and everything was pitch black.

And in front of him, someone was smoking.

Smoke blew in his face, coating his open eyes, making them water.

Dan is crying now. Not crying, but yeah. His eyes were watering intensely.

“Hey.” The voice says, not an apology, just, ‘Hey’.

Dan’s eyes feel heavy now, and he just wants somewhere warm to sleep.

He just wants some warmth.

“Hiya.” He says, mouth all soft and slurring.

The guy smiles, then bites it back, shoving his cigarette back in there, sucking in even more.

Dan watches their mouth narrow around the little stick of nicotine, inhaling, cheeks hollow, until they lessen the muscles and let thick grey smoke seep around the cig.

“Nice.” Dan whispers, but he thought it was just a thought, but he knew he said it when the person airy-laughed, their laughter being drifted away along with the chilly January breeze.

Dan envisions the laughter, all bubbly and music-note like, just drifting and dancing along with the wind, possibly doing the tango.

Dan wants to learn the tango.

Maybe with this person, if they’re willing.

“You want a ride home?” The person says, and Dan looks up again, trying to ‘sober’ (he doesn’t know the stoner word for it), up and focus his sight.

With squinted eyes, Dan finally catches a glimpse. Of their eyes.

“No, I can walk, um-“ Dan cuts himself off, throwing himself out of his chair, almost collapsing straight into Boy, who was across from him, leaning on the railing of the balcony. “Wow, there,” Boy chuckles, airily, like he fucking was that deep and so cool that he can’t really laugh, and Dan regrets wanting to tango with him, because being this close already makes him want to kill himself even harder-

“Get. Off.” Dan says, scoffing. “You’ve already been on me enough recently.”

Boy holds Dan’s shoulders pushing him back gently, making Dan steady himself. “It wasn’t voluntary.” Boy says, scoffing a little bit, out of spite, but still keeping his cool. “Trust me.”

Dan tries his best at a glare, lips stern in a line. “In your dreams, Boy.” He gasps, slurring as he points directly at Boy.  
Boy looks at him, eyebrows shrugging. “You don’t know my name?”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I should go.” He grunts, spinning around, all ready to walk away, to march away and let Boy fiercely glare at him as he did so.

Dan was ready for this to happen.

But his stoned-as-shit mind wouldn’t let him.

All he remembers is his ass feeling really cold, then hurting really fucking bad.


	4. four !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poor dan  
> but, still, he never thanked that lil gymnastic  
> (kinda-filler chapter)

Dan woke up next, sitting on an ice-pack. In someone's bed.  
He glanced around, first too frantically and fast, making him groan in pain, his agony from feeling his head fade into a thumping, horrifying cramp.  
What happened? Dan thought to himself, even thoguh this place is giving him very few clues. The walls are a light beige, the covers a deep, sea-blue and sea-foam green. Even the dressers are a deep, dull gray, with a black and white clock resting on top, against the wall. From this distance, he can't see the time, no matter how much he squints.  
The last thing Dan remembers is his butt hurting a lot.  
Oh no.  
No, no, no, Dan says to himself, literally, envision the words in his brain, all a bright fiery-like-hell red. No. He wasn't-  
"Fancy any milk in your tea?"  
Dan's eyes, all Dan-in-the-headlights, flash up.  
There, stands Boy.  
Dan gulps. "I.. I need to-" He tries to get up, but the blankets are tucked tightly on all sides of him, making him roll out of bed.  
he flunks onto the floor, head hitting the soft carpet with a light 'thud' and an irritated groan escaping once again from Dan.  
He lays there, all tangled up, legs still on the bed and stuck in the sheets, and his other half, arms hanging off the mattress and head thumping on the grey carpet.  
He stays there, still, and Boy gasps, "Are you okay? Do you need-"  
"I prefer some cream in my tea." Dan says, aggressively, but mostly stern. Just a fact. "No milk, and two spoons of sugar."

\--

Boy offered to help him back into bed, but Dan refused and did it himself, even though it was incredibly tiring.  
All of this was tiring.  
Dan is never smoking weed again.  
That dope was pretty fucking intense.  
Maybe it was laced with something.  
Either way, Dan sat there, Boy across from him, sitting on a stiff-looking aqua ottoman. Boy sipped at his tea, legs tucked under himself.

"How aren't your feet going numb?" Dan says, watching him sit there, freakishly flexible.  
Boy gulps, setting his tea to the side. "I used to do gymnastics."  
Dan bits his lips, looking away. "Oh. Cool." He says, even though it was whatever, even though Dan has never met another boy gymnast in his life. "Do you do it anymore? Gymnastics, I mean?"  
Right after he said it, he regretted it, remembering that Pasty Boy used past tense.

Still, Boy didn't flinch. He shook his head, but took his legs out from under him, letting hit the carpet below, still crossed at the ankles. "I gave it up when I started Uni Football three years back. Still, it was fun, and I slightly miss it. Made a lot of good friends."  
Dan had a lot of, well, different friends. Since he was the Marching Band Director, Drum Player, and Choir Singer, he had more musically-inclined friends, who also had a knack for dramatics and just being plain freaky sometimes.  
They dressed like normal outcasts would, with bouncy, uniquely colored hair, all clothed with vintage clothes and scuffed up converse.  
Dan, compared to the rest of them, appeared more normal, except normal wouldn't be the best word for it. Dull, plain, invisible, all those would fit more neatly.

He nearly forgot he was conversing with Boy , until Boy cleared his throat. "I called your mum, uh, told her you were at a friend's and fell, so I brought you back to mine and cleaned you up. She seems pretty nice."  
Dan's eyes widen slightly, sitting up more, planning on standing up, but giving up on it. Still, with big eyes, he chokes out- "What? How do you know her number? How'd you clean me up? Ew?"  
he didn't mean to add the 'ew', but he did, and nonetheless, Boy just shrugged it off anyway. "Your phone slipped out so I looked through the contacts, and I bandaged you up when we got back. Skye's house is only a yard or two from mine."  
"But did I pass out cold? How'd you get me back?" Dan says, gulping more tea down, because he's so thirsty, because his throat is cracked-dry.  
The tea tasted perfectly sweet. Just how he likes.  
"Carried ya'."

Dan set down his tea cup, used all his force and threw the god-forbidden covers off, planted both his feet on the stone-gray carpet.  
The whole time, Boy watched him carefully, eyebrows shrugging again. "Where are you going? it's too late to head out by yourself."  
Dan rolled his eyes walking forward and towards the door. "I need to go, I just." He gulped, a lump in his throat. "I just have to."

He didn't wait one more second, before throwing open the door, and throwing it closed behind him.

Dan headed down the really-fucking-dull hallway, only the deep green carpet in his vision, just trying to watch his step, even thoguh he was inside and there wasn't (realistically, at least) any ice patches around. But he did head some talking.  
When he got to the end of the hall, he saw the same crowd from the other house, now chilling in this house.  
Some were whistling, chanting, cheering in a seductive manner.  
All of them were looking at Dan, who just left Boy's bedroom, limping, grabbing his butt in slight soreness.  
Damn.  
Mikey stared up at him, all sympathetic and pitying.  
"I'll walk you out," Mikey mouths, standing up, walking over, grabbing Dan's arm and helping him down the steps and outside.  
\--  
Dan cried on he way home. Mikey kept hugging him, comforting him, patting his shoulder and offering to get him ice cream. It made Dan cry harder.  
he doesn't want to go to school tomorrow, eh doesn't want to see Boy, and fuck, Dan decided after he made it home safely, he doesn't want to see Mikey, at least not for a while.  
Dan knows he can't skip. But he really just wants to die.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are starting to get juicy, just you wait !!

It was very cold outside. The cold wind whipped his ears, surely making them cherry red and frozen at the tips; he pulled his hood up and tightened the strings, so only his face was showing. Sure, he probably looked dorky, but you know what, Dan is feeling pretty goddamn bad and has too much to worry about, so he couldn't care less about some petty fashion statement.  
It wasn't very dark outside, the sky a soft pink, fading into a deep purple, near the tree-lines. A low fog hung over feet above his head, making the snow quite a surprise, when it started to fall, when Dan was on the trail.  
Cursing the lord almighty, Dan rushed further down the trail, turning off to the left when first able to.  
He was on the street that leads to the school, but Dan's got a good three hours before school, since he actually planned on going today. It was Friday, anyway, and Friday's are normally easy days, right?  
Right?  
He came across, first store to his right on the sidewalk, which was a 7-11. Which is, y' know, weird, considering this is Europe, and more specifically, this is Britain. Dan has never seen a 7-11 here before.  
But, whatever. He heard they have good slushies and hot dogs. And he could really use a good hot dog right now.  
(Looking back, and by looking back, Dan means a couple seconds later, he regrets saying that with all its various innuendo meanings).  
\--

He never knew how good a hot dog could be in the morning. As Dan devoured his third hot dog, covered with the delicious sweet ketchup, he realized he had been missing out on so much. He used to be the most stubborn eater; as a kid, he hated anything with lots of color or flavor.

He hated most fruits and vegetables. He hated meat and dairy, just the way it looked disgusted him. He basically lived celery, cantaloupe, and cheerios.

But, then again, maybe this tastes so good because he didn't have anything yesterday, he just slept and self-pitied.

And its not like he has come far from yesterday, not like he improved much within the span on 24 hours. All that's changed, is now he has a buns and a wiener in his mouth, licking the juice for the sides of his mouth.

(That innuendo was very intentional.)

(No homo.)

\--

It wasn't until sixth period that it started raining. Dan was currently in math class, learning quadratic formulas and inverse operations, because that's way more important than learning how to write checks or balance a bank account, when he heard the grumbling thunder.

Only a couple minutes later, Dan felt his stomach twist in regret, and right as it did, it started to pour. Not only that, but God must have been all like "Hey, Daniel Howell, you've been a dick lately, obviously, so I'm gonna make you hate everything more", because guess what?

It started to hail.

And in exactly an hour from now, Dan has to walk through it.

For his first day on the job, as a cafe barista.

Fun!

\--

He got there, soaking wet and still raw from his school day. Dan walked in, bitter frown on his face, looking like he just sucked a lemon. He guesses the saying 'you are what you eat' is relevant then, so Dan must've had one some time because he is feeling so sour right now.

Maybe he just had a lot of salt; therefore, he's salty.

(Looking back, a couple moments later, Dan internally cringes at saying that, trying to sound like the cool, modern kids with their cool, modern trends.)

But, hey, Dan thought, seeing his boss, the old kind man, gesture for him to come back around counter, he doesn't have to worry about that here. He can act as old and mature as he wants, and be as socially irrelevant as he pleases.

Just thinking that makes him breathe out a huge sigh of relief, smile now on his face. This could be his home away from home.

"Hey, bud, I have to grab some supplies from the supply shed out back. Wanna come? I can show you how to get there."

Dan smiles, naturally, without any effort. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

But like, why does Dan say things like this, 'sounds good', it obviously does because he smiled.

Like geez.

Maybe he just overthinks things too much.

His mum always says how-

"So, this is the back hallway, and to the right is the kitchen area, and to your left is the staff bathroom. Hey, haha, I kinda sound like a tour guide. Maybe in a second life." The man, Fred, says, all with a proud smile stuck on his face, but in an actual way.

the hallway is dark, dim lights barely making the path evident. In the background, a small, fuzzy sound faded in, like the lights were huffing and wheezing, wanting to be put out of their misery. That's a really sad thought to think, Dan thought to himself, making him internally frown. And when lights are flickering, they're grasping for anything, for any bit of life to keep them lit. But in the end, they just go out, completely, light bulbs turning cold.

Sometimes, Dan wonders when his light bulb will go cold.

His thoughts are once again interrupted by the croaky, yet kind and gentle, voice:

"If we keep going further this way, near the backdoor, is where all the staff aprons and baking shoes are. Yes, baking shoes."

Dan glances at the guy, slowing own a little, then glances back at the shoes.

The guy nods once, like he knows what Dan is thinking. "Batter can be sticky and slippery. You need shoes to protect from slipping and possibly dying."

Dan bit his lip, as they went out the backdoor. All he could think was how grateful he was for those gosh-darn baking shoes. He doesn't need any more embarrassing slips, not until he socially and mentally recover from the last couple.

They walk out to the shed, Dan following behind slowly, all whilst his heart is hurting, the social anxiety bubbling up to the surface, still hot.

_People think he's gay._

The anxiety bubbles over, making his brain overheat, like a laptop that's been on far too long.

And as they headed back in, Dan finally calms himself down, enough to choke out- "Don't you have an appointment? Sorry, I just don't want you to be late or anything." He offers a sympathetic smile and a slight shrug, trying to make himself passive, trying to fold into himself, like laundry tightly folded and piled into a closet, under layers and layers.

The guy has an a-ha moment, reaching and patting Dan on the shoulder, a thankful smile on his face, appreciation in his eyes. The guy hurries toward the front door, untying his apron, throwing words over his shoulder: "Phil should be in soon, within a minute or two-"

And that was when it happened.

As the guy opened the front door, welcome bells clinging frantically, a body appeared right in front of it, ready to enter.

And Dan looked up, the laptop of a brain finally cooled down, turned off for the last couple minutes.

"here he is. Phil, meet Dan, a new member of our family. Dan, meet Phil, he'll finish showing you around."

Fred sent Dan a reassuring smile, and same to 'Phil', and left without feeling the growing, awkward tension.

At least, there was tension for Dan.

"So, you're the new guy Fred has been fangirling about," 'Phil' says, sauntering to the front, leaning on the dessert display case. Even though he seemed very tall and lanky, the case was just tall enough where he didn't have to lean down. It must've been a good five and a half feet.

Dan gulped. "I suppose."

the words felt like dry cotton, being weaved into a tight fabric, strings after strings packed against eachother, untied, to make one.

Dan supposed he couldn't say enough words to pack together, to make something. These were just those little loose strings you cute off the garment, floating hopelessly to the linoleum floor below.

Phil didn't have a smile on his face. It was more-so a small grin. It looked natural for his face.

He doesn't look like the type of person that has a full-teeth smile.

But he still looks glowing, still looks happy, something Dan, although he wishes he didn't, envies.

Dan isn't glowing. he's a dim light-bulb, flickering, soft little yellow lights reflecting into his hollow bones, giving him minimal warmth.

But now? Now, now that Dan has to be reminded, five times a week, of his social failures?

Dan didn't have to guess when the light-bulb would go out.

It's been out. Now, this is just a reminder that it did.

Fun fact: When lightbulbs die, they don't recharge. They're done for.

\--

Dan stayed silent the rest of the shift. Seems unlikely, and impossible, but Dan managed.

He was only baking anyway. Therefore, eh was stuck in the small corner with the oven in the back, for probably, a good five hours, until the skies darkened to a deep purply-blue and his shift was thankfully over. He's not truly complaining about the baking, though. He;'s good at that; although it's usually combined with his guilty love of comfort eating.

And he was allowed (by Phil) to take home some of his culinary creations.

He'll definitely have a busy night of binge-watching, binge-eating, and binge-crying.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so basically dan is being a real dick  
> (sorry for not posting for so long, i lost my creative streak for a while)  
> (its complicated, but not really)  
> -emily

Going right along with Dan's recent luck streak, he had to work the next day. His call time was 5:00 P.M., so he went through the whole Saturday with a dreadful outlook, bitter frown stuck on his tiring lips.  
He was always told that he'd be pretty if he smiled.  
That only made him frown more, and want to punch the smile of the person's face.  
Before his shift, still upset but becoming numb to it, Dan walked down the trail, pink skies and white cotton candy clouds floating above. It wasn't snowing, thank the lord Jesus.  
Nonetheless, Dan continues down the slightly damp, dirt path, shivering, his hoodie somehow not providing enough warmth. It was times like these that Dan wished he had some hot cocoa in a portable container. Sure, being himself, he'd probably spill it on himself and cause third degree burns up and down his body, but Dan believes it's worth the risk. It's even worth the injury, if he could just have some warmth in him.  
And speaking about warmth-  
"Hey, Daniel. Haven't seen much of you lately."  
Dan closed his eyes, spinning around to see at the damp, pavilion table, Mikey grinning softly at him. "How've you been? You feeling any better?"  
Dan opened his mouth, instantly ready to vent, but glanced to Mikey's other surroundings. There sat three of Mikey's friends, not quite looking judgmentally at Dan, but not warmly enough for Dan to trust them with his ranting truths.  
"Um, good, I suppose, felt kinda ill, but getting over it now." He said, just filler words, just words light enough they floated off and intermixed with the cotton candy clouds dangling right above him, making the clouds only a bit heavier.  
Dan could feel the clouds weighing down on him now.  
Mikey smiled a bit less, yet still, he was smiling. In contrast, when Dan isn't giving full effort to smile, he is doing the complete opposite.  
Mikey's eyes gleamed, and sure he was high, but it looked more complex than that.  
"Let's go for a walk."

\--

Dan, situated near the oven once again, frustratingly spun the wooden spoon in the plastic bowl. His wrist was going limp, sure, because he actually has _negative_ amounts of muscle, but he needed to get this energy out in the open. He needed to rid of it, his body physically couldn't handle it.

He couldn't handle it.

"need any help, Daniel?" Fred, the older man and store owner, says, walking in. He flicks the light switch on. "Don't you want this on?" He says, amusingly chuckling at Dan, not laughing at him, but Dan's twisted perceptive brain tells him its that way. It's infinitely that way.

"No," Dan says, biting his bottom lip, then snapping back into reality. He looks up with wide eyes. "To both questions, actually, um. Oh my god, I don't mean to sound rude. I really don't mean to come off that way." He sets the bowl on the counter, taking his baking gloves off. "I just," His throat is dry, and Fred is just happily standing there, waiting for him to finish. Dan walks by him, all while pathetically mumbling: "I just really gotta empty the hose."

\--

He's sitting in the library. It's Tuesday, and he really wants to stay here all day.

he really wants to just ingest these books, these covers filled front to back with thick pages full of blank ink.

he wants to suck the ink into his blood, become the story, let it consume him whole.

But he gets distracted form his plan to become a one-dimensional character because of the click.

he looks up. 

the door clicked, and it's opened.

"Just like I left ya'." PJ smirks, leaning against the door-frame.

That same, stupid, one-sided smirk that he used when he met Dan, back in middle school, when he accidentally spilled his school milk on him. In front of everyone.

"Hope strawberry's your favorite.." PJ said, as he cleaned him off in the sinks. "It's not mine, so it's not too major of a tragedy that I don't have it in me."

PJ always used humor to get over things. He never took anything seriously, while, on the other end of the spectrum, Dan never too anything lightly. He always went into situations with a heavy, cautious hand, ready to flake off at any worrying second.

So, when PJ was standing there, with Phil beside him, it didn't send him into much shock.

Typical PJ, pushing Dan past his social comfort levels.

Still, Dan gulped as he moved his eyes back down to his book.

Dan decided to say nothing, not only did he not want to ( _jesus Christ_ he'd rather drop dead on the spot), but he also was mid-chew in his sandwich.

It didn't stall PJ for one second. he took his usual spot, on the beanie bag in the corner, in the lounge section. Since it was usually just them (and sometimes Chris) in here, there was lots of space to stretch out their lanky limbs. But now there's another addition, and its not Chris, someone who Dan is becoming more comfortable with.

And, oh lord, that took him seven months.

And here is Phil, being Phil, standing in the door-frame still, unmoved.

Dan swallows the lump of jelly-flavored bread, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth. He doesn't look up. "You can sit." His voice is normal, steady, but nonchalant, because Dan doesn't care. Not too much, not enough for it to be a newfound concern. Nothing to tell his therapist Wanda about.

"Here?" Phil says, the seat across from Dan. There was another beanie bag in here. Why didn't he just sit in the beanie bag, next to PJ, the sole reason he came here?

Or did he come in here to get away from his popularity? His usual "you don't know my name?" perception of life?

Maybe he can sit in his ego. It seems pretty fucking spacious and big, enveloping Phil whole.

But what does Dan know. He only humiliated himself every time he saw this guy.

When Dan doesn't reply, Pj sighs and says yes, yes, he can sit there, and symbolically he says sorry for Dan being a dick.

he doesn't even need to say it. the heaviness in the air proves it, anyway.

"How have you been? I haven't talked to you much at work." Phil says, and Dan can see him, from the top of his vision, above where his book is propped up on the table, a literal wall between him and Phil (who, by the way, is sitting there, pizza slice and salad sitting untouched in front of him).

Phil is staring at Dan, waiting, expecting a response.

So, Dan swallows the little bit of remaining pride and closes his book. he takes a swig of water (which he forces himself to drink) and thinks of a reasonable response. "You haven't talked to me at work. At all."

Nice Dan, nice one.

Phil looks down, cracking his knuckles. "Sorry?" he says, all weak, and sounding genuine. "It gets hectic there. Everyone wants there mid-afternoon coffee and crisps." he lets out the fakest, most forced chuckled Dan has ever heard in his sad little book-laden life.

Dan sees the attempt Phil is making, so he decides to be an okay human and try, too. 'I'm okay. My butt stills hurts, so. The bruise covers both cheeks."

 Phil choked on his pizza. Dan ignores his evident, protruding Adam's apple, and how it bobs up and down, like a bouncy ball. "Yeah, sorry about that. I didn't know everyone would follow me back, y'know, make it so.. public." He looks down at his hands, cracking his hands. Dan doesn't know how many more joints Phil could possibly crack (or smoke) anymore.

Dan ignores his words, focusing on his book, and that's why he lets.. certain things slip out. "Yeah, I don't know, it wasn't a big deal. It was whatever, I just didn't like how it made me look when I left. The reputation I have now."

"And what would that be?" The blue-eyed, naive lad asks, mouth now full of lettuce and shredded carrot.

Dan scoffs. "Gay, I guess."

In the corner, PJ clears his throat, eyes wide and slurping on his chocolate (not strawberry) milk. Frankly, Dan forgot he was here.

It was silent, the heavy tension growing making Dan want to cut through it, to ask why what he said was so bad. Like, he isn't gay, so why would he want to be seen that way? What's wrong with pointing that out?

The lunch bell rings, and both of the boys get up, leaving Dan to slump there, folding the page he was on.

Dan doesn't dare to look up, until PJ is closing the door behind them.

PJ sends Dan a look, a look of wary and caution, as he hears Phil mumble something softly to him as he pulls the door shut with a strong thud.

And the words stick out in Dan's brain, protruding, evident, bobbing up and down like a bouncy ball.

"What's so wrong with that?"

 

\--

 

Later that night, after work, Dan thought about what he said. He tossed, turned, just like the brownie batter he was just tiredly mixing together only a couple hours before. Was he really being offensive? Or was it somehow a touchy subject to Phil?

I mean, Dan thought, Phil is the top soccer athlete, yet still friends with artsy stoners like Mikey. He is the "all that" of their school, so he obviously has a girlfriend; that's what he's heard, anyway.

Dan thinks this, all this, while it pours outside, the hard pitter-patter of rain making it even harder to sleep.

It's gonna be a long night.

 

\--

 

 

It was a long night.

So long, in fact, that Dan sleeps past not only his first alarm, but all five of them, waking up right when it's about lunchtime.

When it finally hits noon, he's trudging his way to school, sweatpants and hoodie doused in his cologne to erase the "I just wore these as pajamas and haven't washed them in days" scent.

It's around one, when he finally gets to school, only two more hours left in the day. He stands outside, questioning even going in. His mum didn't yell at him for not going. She must know something's up.

So, with no motivation from his mum to go, he turns away and heads back to a familiar place, a safe place.

\--

He ends up in 7-11, stuffing a ketchup-smothered hot dog in his face, his hand freezing from his XL Slurpy, when he sees it.

When he sees them.

Behind the counter, working.

And while they aren't showing their face to him, it's just their back, Dan knows them all too well. He recognizes the tense, muscular frame, the broad shoulders, the curly mess of blond hair tucked under his hat.

And suddenly, all too familiar as well, the memories flood back, rush though him, coating his insides with a sickly poisonous feeling.

He might pass out.

He makes sure to turn away, pushing out of the door, before he gives himself the chance to do just that.

\--

Dan doesn't want to talk about it.He doesn't want to explain.

Even the thought of explaining makes his mouth taste bitter, taste chalky, taste like cheap raspberry vodka.

\--

He stands outside the pastel house, pacing back and froth, yanking his sleeves down to cover his frozen, ghostly white hands which happen to still be shaking from his half-assed panic attack).

He hears their car park, and they get out, footsteps perky as ever.

"Oh, hey, haven't seen-"

Dan stops pacing. "I accidentally was a homophobe."

"... you in a while."

Mikey looks confused.

"And I want to smoke, to forget about it." Dan's desperate voice breaks through the heavy winter winds.

Mikey looks excited once again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dan wants to shove his broom down phil's throat  
> get ready for a whirlwind of angst  
> this is just the start :)))) xoxo

It was Valentine's Day, and of course, it landed on a school day. Walking to school through heaps of fucking half-melted snow shit didn't help, Dan reminisced bitterly to himself, heading to the sad empty library table in the sad empty library.

  
Ever since his comment, three weeks before, PJ has spent less than a week (collectively) in this room with him.  
Various excuses were texted to him, or thrown at him while he [passed i the hallway. "Sorry, got to make up a test!" PJ said last Friday, the fourth time he made that excuse. "I gotta study!" PJ said at least a handful of times.

  
It' a fucking library.

  
It's the Holy Grail for studying.  
But whatever. Dan has been a shit friend recently. He wouldn't be that surprised if he showed up that February 14, to see a lonely room filled with books that he's read a dozen times already.

  
But instead, he's caught off-guard.

  
Instead of books he's read many times, he's met by blue eyes, that he has't fully read before, only ever noticed and looked at anything but.  
Phil looks up at him, eyes neutral. "I think we ought to be better friends. And I'm not gay. I'm fluid. There's a difference."  
"I never said you were gay." Dan says, shutting the door behind him. He feels weak in his knees.  
Phil scoffed, looking down at the table, where he had a book open. But it didn't look like a regular book.

  
In fact, it was a journal.

  
Dan walks over carefully, sitting down across from him, in his usual spot.  
"What's that?"  
Phil shuts the journal, sliding it over the table. "To be frank, you've been a dick to me ever since our little falling incident on the soccer field. I've tried, really, we even worked together, for fuck's sake. But it isn't reaching through to you, apparently. Apparently, because you even made a gay slur at me."

  
"I didn't know you were gay." Dan says, reaching for the book that was in the middle of them, which still had Phil's gigantic pasty (smooth, milky-white) hand on it.

"I'm fluid. There's a difference. And, according to this little diary I found, you are too. Or, for the least, you've had your solid experiences." Phil uncovered the book, sliding it all the way to Dan.

  
It's his long-life journal. 500 pages of his past, almost every week since he started kindergarten.  
He never felt safe leaving it at home, worried his mum or dad would find it so he left it as school, deep within the shelves, between his favorite Fitzgerald books.  
"Gotta love the Beat writers of the '30's, hm? Some classics. Didn't know you were among them."

  
Dan's eyes turn dark, and evil, he can fee lit. The classic Howell look that he gets when things don't go his way. "The fuck do you want."  
Phil raises his eyebrows, shocked, but not too, because he's still having that half-smirk on his thin, baby-pink lips, slightly chapped from the remaining chippy weather.  
Ahem. Dan doesn't notice that. Not at all.

  
So Dan, who's totally not staring at this little fucker's lips, feels himself build up with a weird kind of rage.  
Weird, because he feels its inevitable destruction, by whatever Phil is gonna say, he feels like it'll break right through him. He doesn't have anyone, not even his ol' pal PJ, here to back him up.

  
Phil flicks his eyes up and down Dan's upper boy, making him feel very exposed in his 2XL grandpa sweater and worn-out black sweatpants.  
"Found it last Friday; came here in the morning to study before my math exam. Was a thorough weekend read-"  
"Don't need a goddamn summary of your weekend. Just need a fucking clue why you're trying to humiliate me right now. What's your leverage?" Dan spits out, forming fists below the tale, nearly making his palms bleed.

  
Phil leans over the table. "I failed that math exam. Read here that you love Maths; you love it for reasons I could give a shit about. I just know you're a fanatic, a real Mathematician's wet dream."

  
"And?" Dan says, seething, leaning in too, mockingly. He ignores how close their faces are.  
Phil blinks. "I consider myself pretty good at sports. And you said there you wanna add a sport experience to your Uni application, and I just happen to think I'd be a real solid coach for you to achieve that. I happen to know that we can help eachother out."

  
"Or what?" Dan says.  
Phil's face drops, losing a bit of the evil edge he had before. "I don't like blackmail, but I really need help in Maths. I'll do whatever I can to improve."  
"Or what? You're kinda shit at answering queries." Dan mumbles, lips pursed. He is staring at the table now. He just wants to hear Phil say it. He knows what he'd say, but he just wants to hear Phil admit it.

  
"You know." Phil's voice cracks a tiny bit, a tiny crack of vulnerability.  
"Fucking say it!" Dan says.

  
"We all have skeletons in our closets, yours happens to still be in the closet, specifically."  
And that was enough for Dan.

  
Dan grabbed his lunch, stomping to the door, yanking it open.  
He didn't dare to turn back and let Phil see the emotional mess he was.  
But he stood still, frozen, when Phil called out to him.

  
"I just really need help in Maths, and I. I can't pay anyone, I do't have that.. And I don't want anyone to know I have a problem in it, I could lose my football position.. I."  
"You what?" Dan whispers, staring at the floor below his Ugg-wearing feet.

  
"Please." Phil whispers, the first full moment of weakness he heard, hell, the first soft moment he saw in Phil.

  
Dan still cant dismiss the fact that Phil could spill every bad thing that Dan has done, or had done to him, anything of that blurb of regrets that built up in his life. He could tell anyone, everyone.  
So Dan walks out, shutting the door behind him, another wall between the two boys who both needed help.

\--

Later that night, after Choir practice, Dan was sweeping flour and plain old dirt off the baking kitchen's floor. He got lost in it, almost competitive. Sadly, this is what he gets competitive about. Not sports, even Band, something he has passion for. No. He doesn't feel that tense need to finish his task, not like he does when people rely on him for something. Especially cleaning.

He always used to be a nervous cleaner. While he himself is a messy lad, he considers his room and belongings pretty well-kept, usually wiped off or color-coordinated. It's just speaking to others that's an issue for him. He says things that are meant to be alphabetized, sparkly-polished, but they end up like a disheveled heap of flour on the checkered linoleum.

You can't clean words.

And talking about messes..

He hears words, spoken cleanly, by someone that makes him jumbled up and a heaping flour pile.

"Tomorrow afternoon: Bring your tennis shoes and a change of sport clothes. Meet me in the field house around 3."

"But-" Dan starts, pointing a finger and staring to protest.

Phil cuts him off, which makes Dan want to shove this broom down the kid's throat (something that he might enjoy).

(Not Dan. Although he accidentally made it sound that way."

"I already cleared it with Peej, he says you'll chill some other time, and obviously I wrote you off the schedule here, easy-breezy, beautiful, cover-girl."

It's Phil's smirk that kills Dan. A sideways, half-assed one, only the right side of his mouth, eyes lit up like blue christmas trees.

Why is he so goddamn happy? This is nearly water torture to Dan, slowly, not yet painful, but with enough repetition, surely will be.

\--

Dan couldn't stop thinking about that fucking smirk later. Something about it was genuine.

Even though this is blackmail.

Dan really wanted to shove that broomstick down Phil's throat.


End file.
